Taking the stairs up
Two at a time, I was marinating
In the instant replays of time spent
With a crush.
Filtering and sifting through the
Tone, the words, the lift of her lip. I, I have been far too
Misguided in my kinship findings all my life. I wanted
To be matter of fact. Before I cleared my throat, stuck out
my neck,
Made myself plain, held my breath, and deepened the mystery
In her company. Would she have my company.
While this quiet suffering took hold of me,
I failed to notice a thin, bearded
Stranger in an orange, checkered sweater
And a plaintive, transfixed grin, who
Not so such descended the same stairs
As threw himself towards me.
We collided. I
caught the railing,
Prevented us from falling.
His grin, forlorn and never failing,
Thanked me. Then, he
tapped me on the shoulder,
Raced back up the stairwell, and I followed.
Upon rejoining him, he offered me a lit cigarette,
And pointed, with slight reverence,
To the distance,
At a tussle of wings,
And a mottled, , mutilated crow
Marking a pace round
Itself. A compass of
blood growing thinner and thinner.
Been hours, the stranger whispered.
He’s made that circle for hours. And just minutes ago,
I think the bird has made his peace.
And with that, we smoked and watched the creature
Spin into smaller and smaller whorls
Until the light diminished from its eyes
And he toppled onto the cold concrete.
He was witnessed.
That was his legacy.
We buried him. We kept his story.
We photographed the art he made.
That was the very first time I met Howard,
That was how I began to intuit this world externally,
And imperfectly act in it, unafraid.
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